


Subversion

by orphan_account



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Abuse, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anxiety Attacks, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Blind Locus, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Choking, Consent Issues, Depersonalization, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Hand Job, I can't believe I made this, I'm so sorry, Inability to give consent, M/M, Manipulation, Overstimulation, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rimming, Sensory Overload, Victim Blaming, Victim Locus, bottom Locus, denying that rape has occured, despite all of the above it did start as a porn fic, disabled character as the victim of rape, dub-con, excusing one's rapist, excusing rape, fears of regression, guilted into sex, linguistic shutdown, mentions of canon consistent abuse in author's notes, neurodivergence, neurodivergent locus, non-con, nonverbal, oh right and the autoerotic asphyxiation is of the unsafe that's not how you should do that variety, pardoning a rapist, passing as neurotypical, pre-canon canon compliant, retracting consent, saucy but horrible, sensory shutdown, shutdown, some implied consent, stereotypic behaviors, struggling to seem neurotypical, there are also consensual acts throughout but be advised of triggers regardless, victim attempts to take back control, victim blames himself rather than the abuser, victim does not perceive himself as a victim, victim prevented from withdrawing consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 00:18:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5143319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don’t tell me you aren’t even a little curious?”</p><p>You are not curious. You are uncomfortable.</p><p>You have always fucked Felix, not the other way around.</p><p> ------------------------------------------------------ |||-------------------------------------------------------------</p><p>What begins with sensuality and consent escalates to reluctant consent and hesitant sexuality, which escalates to an inability to even give consent--in no small part due to sensory shutdown, disassociation, an anxiety attack, and unsafe autoerotic asphyxiation. All of this in second person, directed at Locus.</p><p>BEWARE TRIGGERS: PLEASE DO NOT READ WITHOUT FIRST CHECKING THE TAGS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subversion

**Author's Note:**

> THREE IMPORTANT NOTES—  
> 1) If you haven’t thoroughly CHECKED THE TAGS, please, please do before you read this. This thing is an absolute trigger-fest.
> 
>  
> 
> 2) Normally I like to let a piece of writing speak for itself, but this one is an exception: I want to make it clear what the author’s intent was, because it is so far outside of what I usually do and even farther outside what I’m even comfortable with. So, that said, I’d appreciate folks having a look at the notes at the end of this at some point—AT LEAST BEFORE COMMENTING, as a favor to my good conscience and overall mental wellbeing. (Explaining my logic is the only way I can justify posting this to myself. Non-con is just not my genre.)
> 
>  
> 
> 3) Lastly, please note that my Locus is many things. He's multiracial. He's blind. He's a colony kid. But what he ISN’T is neurotypical--he struggles with depersonalization, disassociation, anxiety and sensory overload, among other things. (Feel free to read into that however you want to.) This is ALWAYS how I write him—“Aftermath” is also an especially good example of this—and I just want to make it abundantly clear that I DID NOT WRITE HIM THIS WAY ONLY TO ADD DRAMA TO THIS FIC. That would be, to put it extremely lightly, disgusting.

You feel oddly human, stretched out in his bed with damp hair, with a body cleaner than it’s been in weeks. The antiseptic system for long-term armor use doesn’t leave you  _clean_ , just sanitary. And oily. Felix’s hand doesn’t glide up your side in the same way, when you’ve been away from water, as it does now. His scarred fingertips and calloused palm tickle your ribcage, and you wince without asking him to stop. This is  _his_ bed: this safehouse—a proper, actual house in a nondescript suburb of a languishing colony city not unlike where you grew up—exists under the name of one of  _his_ falsified and stolen identities. This is  _his_ house, his bed, and you know he likes this kind of touching. This slow, too-light sliding that he explores you with; though he’s seen you enough by now, touched you enough, to know the territory under his hand without having to map it. He does so anyway. Grazes his palm across your ribs. He catches you shivering, and sighs.

Felix nestles into your side, slipping under your arm to nip at where he’d been stroking, and digs his fingers into your hip. The kind of touching  _you_ like.

He releases your skin from his teeth, and you feel it again. That unfamiliar complacency of being nothing more than what you were born as: a person, instead of a soldier. A man, instead of a machine, which is—you think—what you would prefer to be. Machines are efficient and exact. Machines do not wake up, covered in cold sweat, so frigid and frantic so as to wonder if a ghost has passed over them as they slept. Machines do not catch a horrific glimmer, at the corner of their minds’ eye, of the palpable fear in an enemy’s expression before it died. Machines don’t need a name, and don’t stare down at the tags Felix likes to tangle between his fingers trying to remember if the one stamped in the metal should mean something more than it does. Machines don’t shirk from asking whether your dead CO’s insistence on calling his men by the make of their armor rather than the names of their person had something to do with how easily you’ve forgotten what you’d once been called; and whether that matters, when the best advice he’d ever given you was to remind you that you were expendable. A filler for your armor. A walking targeting algorithm for your gun. He hadn’t been wrong, and you have been Locus for years, now, because of the truth of his words.

You are a soldier, and don’t need to be anything else.

_You are a mercenary._

You have to remind yourself, sometimes, that fortune is now what you fight for. It doesn’t feel different enough to matter: you still take orders, you still kill and recover and report, and the only change you notice is the lack of hierarchy, the absence of a captain over your shoulder, and Felix in his place. You still call yourself a soldier.  _Mercenary_ is the word Felix wears like a title, draped around him as a mantle, soft and silken and slippery and rich against his skin. You know, even choosing not to wear it as he does, that the word has also come to apply to you; but still you forget. There’s no reason not to, when—so far as you’re concerned—you can still be a soldier, too.

 _Soldier_ is also the title Felix has given you. He says it to mock you, he says it to praise you, he says it as he perches on top of you, begging and ordering you to fuck him just a little harder to the tempo he’s set with the grinding of his hips.

But today, if only for a moment, you are a civilian. Lying naked in the soft bed he’s paying for at three in the afternoon, with tired eyes and easy breathing, the only part of you even close to standing at the ready is the part that Felix is inching his mouth towards, tracing the wing of your hip with alternating sharp bites and soft kisses your body isn’t certain how to react to. Whether with tenderness or brutality. You could just as readily take him by his hair and force his mouth around and down the length of you, as you could take his face in your hands and pull him up to kiss you.

Ultimately, you choose the later, cupping your hand beneath his chin, pulling him away from the tempting trajectory he’s following to meet your mouth instead.

Felix tastes like saliva and spearmint and steel. He insists that the ring in his lip is flavorless, but you suspect he’s simply grown blind to it: it does have a flavor, one that’s inexorably tied to him in your mind. Felix, with a taste to his tongue to match his knives.

He wraps an arm around you as you kiss him, and pulls himself across your chest. You catch his lip between your teeth. His leg follows his arm. You explore him, seeking where the mint taste blends with the metal, sampling the soft, hot space beneath his tongue. His knee digs against your thigh. He presses your legs apart so that he can slide down in between them, stretching his naked body languidly across you, digging his forearms into your clavicles as he knots his fingers through your hair and yanks your head a little closer. Though his body is slack, his hands are demanding.

Kissing him is always a battle—quiet beginnings and gnashing teeth escalating in moments to a kind of cannibalism, a starved attempt to consume each other, to silence each other, to outdo each other. Felix presses his tongue between your teeth at the same time he rolls his hips, trusting your jaw to snap open rather than shut. To let him inside you, in some way, as he hardens between your legs.  It’s one of few ways he ever breaches you. Occasionally, he demands that you drop to your knees and worship him with your mouth along with your hand. But that, and the burning feeling in your chest as his thumbs press into your temples to tilt your head back, to expose your neck to his searching mouth and eager suction, are Felix’s preferred ways of entering you. The insistence in the forward press of his hips against your—occasional, but quick and pointed—is unusual. Mirrors an act you’ve never performed, and wouldn’t want to. He grinds the two of you together with a certain urgency unbefitting your lazy afternoon, and you grit your teeth against the sound he must want from you. You have no reason to let it out, yet. He’s yet to earn it, and chatter is his job, anyway, the constant stream of his voice absent now only because he’s preoccupied by tracing the edges of your pectorals with his teeth. Licking at a nipple. Leaving O-shaped, _mouth_ shaped bruises across your chest.

He is silent, and you struggle not to be loud, to ruin the perfect quiet of shifting blankets and the soft, wet noises of his mouth. The dry whisper of his rolling body against the resistance of your thighs, now closed around him. Holding him. Pulling him harder against your body and pressing him against what he’s done to you—the hardened aching where he lies against you. Where he’s striking at you with his own weight and heat and motion. His own ridged body.

He bites your neck and pulls your hair and grinds right down to your bones and a sound slips from your lips despite you.  A reluctant grunt he dances to with his body laid out across your waist your stomach your chest, hips sliding back and forth beneath your clawing hands so that you ache beneath him. His lateral grinding is unorthodox, but no less effective. You catch yourself snarling before you’re able to snatch up his mouth with yours. And capture his length in your hand.

Felix arches off of you with a hiss, all catlike in his sounds and motions and the lean shapes of his body. His smooth, defined outlines. He’s more delicate than you, with muscles that sit with a gentler weight across his bird bones. The curve of his cheek is sweet and soft in your palm, as is the curve of his spine, the both of them so unlike the almost astonishing firmness jumping in your other hand, with its sliding skin and eager heat. You like the way he jolts with each incremental tightening of your fingers. The way he clamps his hand down around yours to shove it where he needs it, a little closer, a little tighter, angling your hand. He doesn’t even ask you to move.

He puts his tongue in you again.

He pries your jaw open, knocks your teeth together, and slides down over your taste buds before you can drive him back. He leaves his mint and metal in your mouth. You can still taste it as you lock your lips with his, as you take him into your teeth. Pinch down and suck until you imagine you can taste the rising purple and rushing blood of a bruise. Another metallic taste as he fucks your hand hard enough to chafe.

 

| | |

 

Felix is all fervor.

He’s frantic, he’s eager, he’s hungry, and he takes it out on your mouth. You kiss him with your eyes open just to watch the movements of his body like the cracking of a whip, the wave pattern of the sigmoid curve of his back furling and unfurling as his pelvis rises and falls, rolls forward and back, as beautiful to you as it is painful: It’s hard to lie back and watch when you want to pin his hips in your hands and flip him, roll him, throw him off of your body and under it, press him into the mattress face down so you can watch him from above, appreciate his fingers twisting in the duvet and the flush on whichever cheek he turns toward you. But he continues to fuck your hand, and you don’t. He peels away from your kiss, throws an arch into his spine and rears his head back, as he snaps past your fingers with enough force and rapidity for you to need two arms to brace against the motion. To stay still enough for it to work for him.

And it does work.

Felix surrenders to a long, high, grating, teeth-distorted wine that twinges in your bonemarrow, a sound that becomes a longer, rougher moan punctuated by a snarl as he wraps his slender fingers around yours and  _squeezes._

He’s been beyond talking for long minutes now, but he manages to gasp three words at you, “Don’t let me,” before they degrade into another, now half-laughing, groan. A pornographic, gratuitous noise.

It worsens, becoming an agonized cry, as you find the base of him and close your fingers like a vice. With his help. He stares into the wall behind your head searching for gods he doesn’t believe in for what feels like forever and yet not nearly long enough—he’s lovely, hovering on the verge. Looking so pained and radiant beneath the sheen of sweat. Lovely and terrible. His eyes snap down and he takes you in with something ravenous trapped in the inkwells of his pupils and the warm brown of his irises. You know he’s dangerous like this. So hungry and so wild.

“S’not enough,” he slurs from between his teeth. He shudders as you stop him, strangling his orgasm. Sounds drunk or high, and looks like fainting.

If you’d meant to answer him it doesn’t matter. He descends on you too quickly: presses his fingers into your scalp and his thumbs under your jaw, opening up your neck to the press and pressure of his lips. He sucks rings of purple into the skin along your jugular; the foreplay of a vampire. He leaves faint scratches from behind your ear and down your neck all the way to your waist as he drags one hand along you. You arch into his palm. His hand passes by what you’d assumed he was aiming for, turns down the opportunity to pull you apart between his fingers and angle you into his body. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s ridden you dry while he was like this—half in love with the pain, slow moving with watering eyes and an effervescent smile on his face and his fingers bruising whatever part of you he could reach. But that isn’t what he does. He presses his hand down between your legs instead, searching for something else.

You release your grip on him and plow the heel of your hand into his stomach to lift him away before you freeze. Before your muscles demonstrate, for the both of you, a dress rehearsal of rigor mortis, and stop responding. Felix pulls away from you with everything but his wandering hand. You recover your own long enough to smack it. He catches your offending fingers in his and squeezes, dragging you both down low between you so that you have to sit up and brace yourself with an elbow to follow the motion. He presses one of your own fingers down the centerline of your body until you clench your hand, and make him yelp. The embers in his eyes, always on the edge of burning, begin to spark. You have to say something.

“Don’t,” you tell him.  _I don’t like it._ Or, if you do, you don’t want to know. You don’t want to know what he can do to you from down there—how quickly he could shred you at the seams. You’ve seen what it does to  _him_  and want no part of it for yourself.

It’s strange enough for you to feel human: the writhing, arching, keening  _less-than_ animal so little control could turn you to—the indignity and helplessness and _overwhelm_ _i_ _ng_ —the ways it could derail you are enough to turn your stomach.

“I don’t want—”

Felix squeezes your hand.

“I am  _begging_ you,” he doesn’t sound as though he is, “not to finish that sentence . . . Don’t tell me you aren’t even a little curious?”

You are not curious. You are uncomfortable.

You have always fucked Felix, not the other way around.

“No,” you tell him. He snorts.

“You’re so boring, Locs. It wouldn’t kill you to have some fun . . .” If he has more to say he loses it, distracted by whatever it is he sees as his eyes run over the shape of you. His would-be sneer slackens and he falls down across you for a moment, pressing a firm and starving kiss into the groove between your abdominals at the same time as he yanks your hand back, prying open your fingers to cup a cock that’s painfully, ramrod hard. When next he speaks it’s a whine, and it  _does_  sound like he’s begging.

“Come on—”

You try to close your fingers around him and he yelps. Opens his teeth against your stomach.

“No.”

That time it angers him. He sits back, face flushed, clutching your hand against him, with a snarl on his pretty lips. There’s a tirade forming in the space between them, being born of intent and his lacerating tongue, but he closes his teeth around it as he looks at you.

You. You aren’t looking at him. You’ve turned your face away and are taking him in from the corner of one eye even as you grasp at his body. Felix cocks his head. Lifts and drops his eyebrows. You close your eyes. Part of you wants to tell him that you’re sorry. Confess that you think, perhaps, that you wish you  _could_  give him what he wants without shattering the composure you work so hard for. The protocols for behavior that the fit of your armor and the sting of Felix’s words have outlined for you over the years as nothing has before. You think you might try anything for him, if you could do it without regressing. If you thought he could hold you together while cracking you apart—perhaps he can. But you are a soldier, not a gambler. Felix is the only bet you’ve ever taken.

He’s a payout you think you regret, more often than not.

“Locs,” he says, sampling a different tone. “Look at me.”

When you don’t, when you can’t, he says it again as an order.

You turn your face up to his, and he releases your fingers. Plants both his hands around your waist and runs them twice up and down your sides. A pleasantly claustrophobic, firm pressure and gentle friction against your ribs at just the right pace to guide your breathing. His voice is soft and strange when he speaks. Baffled, and struggling to be reassuring. So frank, so plain, but so full.

“Babe . . .” it’s such a rare and bizarre thing that he calls you, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

_I know._

He would never. 

“That’s not what—”  _I’m afraid of._

What you’re afraid of is yourself. But you don’t want to admit that to him.

He understands it anyway.

A look of incredulous delight spreads over his face. “‘What you’re’ what?  _Afraid of?_ Oh, Locus—come  _on._ ”

He descends on you with kisses.

Your mouth, your cheeks, your eyelids, your forehead, your mouth again. And you reciprocate with everything you’re capable of, your tongue, your teeth, your gentleness and fury. He lets you drift down to his jaw and lifts his chin for you to reach him. He stays patient while you recover yourself, piece by piece, rediscovering your hands so that you can place them on his shoulders and crush him into your chest. So you can slide them down his back and remind yourself not to pull his eager hips and the promise they hold any closer.

Felix slips away from you, slithers down your body until your hands are back on his shoulders. Then his neck. Then his hair. It’s all but nonexistent on the sides, the buzz at once soft and prickly, and only barely long enough to knot your fingers through along the top. You try to knot them into his skull, instead.

He kisses your hip, bites it. Licks a trail down your body you think you can anticipate. But he bypasses you. Splays himself out on the mattress with his knees out wide to keep his feet on the bed and sinks lower, lower, all hot breath and the threat of his tongue, which he delivers on before you can stop him. Before you can order him or beg him or hit him; though the act itself doesn’t derail you as you might have expected. Felix’s tongue is Felix’s tongue, and it’s been on other parts of you. Its wet slide and flick, sometimes pleasant, sometimes abhorrent depending on where he drags it and for how long, is familiar. And the texture—which is so often more than you can or want to handle—is muted by your own body’s bewildered sensitivity so that all you feel is the pattern he paints around you, and the warmth. Which you like more than you care to admit.

Your head drifts into your pillow. The fabric at your cheek alerts you to the fact that you’ve turned away again, though you can’t seem to crank your head back around. Your skin against your hands tells you that you’ve lost your grip on him, warns you that your labored-breathing silence should not, perhaps, be treated as a measure of composure. You put dents in your thighs with your fingers.

When Felix next sits up, he reaches out and pulls your head around to face him. You wish he hadn’t—he is beautiful, but your heaving chest isn’t something you wanted in your field of view. Isn’t a reminder you needed of how far he’s already pushed you. How far he’d like to.

He waits until he’s sure you’re looking at him to suck two of his fingers into his mouth. You stiffen, gather your legs against him. The word  _enough_ is ready on your tongue, though you can’t seem to force open your jaw. He pulls his fingers free with a pop.

“What, you want a taste?”

You consider saying  _yes_  only because you know what he’ll do. That he’ll slide his fingers into your mouth and tell you to suck as you’ve so often asked him to. But that would require you to manage to speak at all. With your words resistant, you hesitate to waste them. So you hold your breath as he settles down on the mattress again, and release it only when he slides the length of you into his mouth, presses the imposing fingers against you solely as a continuation of the earlier motions of his tongue. He sucks and presses until your fists clench and you can no longer silence your groans, until you pitch your hips up to his mouth and he has to reach out, wrap an arm around your thigh to brace himself before he pushes back, takes you in until he gags.

Before he pushes back with his hand.

You drop your hips. They fall with a weight they shouldn’t have, aided by the feeling like a cold stone in your stomach. The weight of all he could undo.

You release the words you’ve held in reserve in a rush, sit halfway up and all but shout.

“Stop it, Felix.”

He pulls his mouth away and plants a kiss on your inner thigh, rolling his gaze up to your face when it turns into a bite. Hard and sharp, a mean little pinch that makes you want to kick him away and pile him beneath you while he catches his breath again, crush him under your weight and your mouth and work him with your hand until he screams. Begs for you to fuck him raw.

“Lighten up,” he says, and descends again to place his tongue where his finger is. To lick you, hot and slow, until your breath won’t come to you any more than your words and you put your hand back in his hair.  _Don’t do it,_  you think at him.  _Please._ Restraint is one of many things you could beg him for.

Something firm joins his tongue.

“Felix—”

Something presses against you like a promise, like a warning, masked by the swirling of his tongue.

_Do not—_

He breaches you by a knuckle and your heart goes cold in your chest.

 

_ _ _

 

“Felix,  _please—”_

It’s such an ugly cry. But it works. Felix loses his grip on his intentions, sitting bolt upright with a sigh. An irritated one. An  _infuriated_ one. His hand falls away, and down across his thigh, closing into a saliva-slick fist as it goes.

“Locs,” he snaps, before you can justify yourself, your desperation, your clammy, nervous fear, “what the  _fuck_ is your problem?”

“I—”  _Can’t . . ._

He talks over the rest of your likely incoherent answer. Tramples it, all with a hand on his hip, glowering at you from beneath the halo of sweat on his brow.

“No, don’t bother saying anything. I don’t actually want to hear it. Just . . .  _Look_ , Locus, look where you are: this is the first bed either of us have seen in six weeks. Silk fucking sheets. There’s a paycheck for two mill sitting in our account, and all we have to do is enjoy it. Loosen. Up. Think of this as a gift from me to you, and  _chill,_ would you?”

You don’t know how to respond. He takes your silence as an invitation to continue.

“Unclench for ten seconds,” he adds, sighing again, almost disparaging now, “and just let me do something for you, for once. Ok? Ok. Good talk.”

He doesn’t seem to care that he’s imagined your affirmation. He busies himself with ignoring you, sprawling across your chest and throwing his arms wide to grab every pillow on the bed and close them in around you.

“Sit up,” he orders, and he stuffs two or three of them behind your shoulders and your head. “And for the love of god—”

He pauses to suck gratuitously, long and slow, on two of his fingers before electing with a sigh to dig out the bottle he keeps in the side table drawer and add proper lubricant before he continues.

“— _Relax._ ”

His hand snakes between your legs at a slow enough pace that you could have thrown him off well before he got to where he wanted to be. Before his finger closed in on you, completing a concentric spiral of gentle preparation not quite so pleasant or warm as what he’d already done with his tongue.

You’re holding your breath when he kisses you.

_Don’t don’t don’t, say something, don’t—_

He kisses with surprising tenderness. Even the snag of his teeth is quick and careful, and he breathes, heavy against your chest, as if he’s trying to do so for you.

When he presses in, it’s slow. You handle it well enough to be hopeful. A little hitch in your breathing. A little choke that he smothers with his mouth before working his way down to your jaw, kisses his way over to the ear he nips.

“Locs,” he warns again. “Relax. If,” he breaks the rest of the phrase apart with the staccato sensation of his lips repeatedly meeting and releasing your neck, “we’re going to have any fun here,” kissing, kissing, there’s the scrape of his teeth down to your shoulder, “you have to actually let me in.”

He pulls your head back into your throne of pillows by your hair to suck on the sensitive place where your neck meets your jaw. It’s the pressure on your scalp, though, that you’re ultimately able to get lost in. just enough so that, in slow but insistent increments, he’s able to stretch into you up to his next knuckle, then to where the bulk of his hand stops his progress. His weight rests against your right leg, allowing him to angle himself so his hand can work, and he has to nudge your left away with an awkward, sideways kick to your ankle as he slips inside you.

He purrs into your jaw. His breath is warm. His chest shakes against yours, a comforting, heavy rumble that doesn’t match the airiness of how he laughs.

“Not bad, is it?” he asks. You cannot, and will not, answer. He tightens his hand in your hair until you grimace. “ _Breathe_.”

He waits for you to comply with his elbow digging into your shoulder and his hand like a vice in your hair. Waits for you to let your frantic left leg slacken and fall open at the hip. Waits for you to relax around the pressure of his hand and the reach of his finger. Without lifting himself from your chest, perhaps trying to hold you down, perhaps trying to quiet you with the calming presence of his weight and warmth, he curls it inside you.

Initially, all you feel is electric. Raw. You jerk upright only for Felix to hold you down by your hair, by his teeth. He bites into your shoulder hard enough for a bruise to rise in less time than it takes for you to react to the way what he’s doing starts to feel. A rolling, aching-pleasant wave in the aftermath of the shock. Stimulation you feel all the way into your extremities. Into your toes. As it moves, you still, going open mouthed and frozen, your torso still curled halfway to sitting even as your neck stops fighting altogether. Your head falls into his hand and the pillows, heavy and blank except for static. It’s a feeling like a tide, and you ride it for seconds, minutes, some immeasurable span of time before he presses a little harder and watches you battle not to come undone.  _Wait—_

You’re gritting your teeth but he’s kissing you anyway.

 

| | |

 

It’s awful, until your hand finds his arm. You can’t breathe, you can’t think, you are melting into reaction and pleasure and discomfort and endorphins and nothing else—and then your palm lands on his forearm, and you dig in, reaching for bones and skin and muscle and control. Which he gives you. He lets you push him back for a moment while you stutter inhalations and struggle to remember to let your sour air back out, and he lets you measure his pace when he presses back in.

It’s not the speed, you discover, that tortures you: it’s the smoothness. The difference between a glide and increments, one motion instead of several before he strikes at the place from which you think he just might kill you. It wouldn’t be surprising if he did. You wouldn’t hate him for it—you couldn’t hate him for anything, as he slides a second finger into you and  _waits,_ lets you breathe and rest and groan despite yourself.

He purrs as you grip his arm, and use it to pull him towards you. Deeper. And you have to admit in the quiet static of your mind that you want it. That you like it, now, with this small measure of control. With this slight increase in stretch and pressure and the look it puts on his face to see you roll against his hand; you can’t seem to control your hips as well as you can Felix. Which you try not to think about. It makes you choke.

“Jesus,” he mutters, “breathe. You’re going to break my fingers.”

He grimaces as he says this, but laughs to himself, unaware of the cold feeling in your skull, like your brain icing over that the commentary prompts.  That you can’t relax, once he mentions it, only makes you feel worse. Steals the enjoyment from you and makes you hate the next curl of his fingers and your answering, ugly gasp.

For a moment, you want to shove him out.

Your hand slackens instead. You can’t both control it, and fight to keep your keening mouth shut.

Felix takes it as an invitation to vary his motion. He twists in you, and shoves. A bright flash of pain muddled by a euphoria that wipes your brain and makes you shout steals your vision entirely. You lie back, arching off the mattress, momentarily blind in a way that has nothing to do with the artificial augmentation of your long-ago injured eyes.

He works you like that for a while. Slow, smooth motions, more varied when you’ll let him, ever-plying. You grit your teeth until your jaw aches to _stay silent_ : Everything he does to you feels better when you do. Good enough that you don’t want him to stop. Good enough that you can feel your fingers again, can reach for his arm and beg him deeper and deeper until his hand gets in the way and his only other option to please you is to experiment with speed— answering your wincing with ample lubrication.

He jerks at himself while he moves in you, pleasures you, tortures you, and you focus on his rolling eyes in the moments when the pressure becomes too much and your head falls back and your grip turns to desperation and a plea for stability instead of the guidance that you want.

Or think you want.

Your eyes closed, your fingers peeling the muscles off the bones of his forearm just to direct him, breath a roar from between your teeth—you feel pliant. You feel taught. Like you could fall backward through the blankets, through the floor, and only pick yourself back up if he told you to. Like he could grind you down to nothing but the aching point where your body meets his fingers. Where he curls them to meet you and turn breathing into something desperate. Heaving inhalations to rock his mouth as he brushes his lips across your stomach. Too gentle. You peel your palm from the headboard and thread your fingers through his hair. You shove his face into your hip. He gratifies you with a bite. First there, then your thigh as he licks and nips a pattern into you like a signature. A bleary-eyed, lidded look at him tells you he’s sitting back on his heels, head cocked as if for a kiss, inclined so that you can see the movements of his lips against your thigh. You like the look of your skin in his mouth, dark against his pearl teeth.

Both his hands remain preoccupied. He works the third, slickened finger he’s been holding in reserve inside of you with a twist of his wrist and a slow press, an unstressed motion, though you dig your heels into the mattress anyway, brace your back against the heap of pillows between you and the headboard.

Felix gives you a squeeze with his other hand. A distraction. Murmurs “easy, Soldier” against the bruises he’s leaving on your leg so that you focus in on the hot, disarming tickle of his breathing while you struggle to recover yours. You’re gripping his arm so hard that you can feel something slick and warm welling under two of your fingers, drawing blood even with your short nails. Felix doesn’t care. He pushes past your resistance, flexes against your fingers, so he can slip into you to the last knuckle as he bends again to kiss your stomach. He takes you in his mouth as he retreats.

Your head falls back and your eyes fall shut. You breathe. You breathe, you breathe, and seek his now-free hand, clutching at his fingers, crushing them in yours.

You both love and hate the slide of his piercing. The off-center pressure, an almost-pinch as he sucks and pulls. You think you might break his knuckles. You can feel your eyes rolling behind your eyelids and you know that if he moves his hand, if he curls those three fingers while his tongue is swirling over the rest of you that it will break you, that you will shout and shatter shake to pieces, losing your tenuous hold on yourself.  _Felix, stop._ You can’t say it but you need to.  _Felix, stop, stop, stop—_ there’s a knot in the pit of your stomach and the image in your head of the way he arches beneath you when you do these same things to him. You can conjure up the sounds he makes from memory, noises like you’re ripping off pieces of his soul to keep for yourself as he writhes, debauched and beautiful, suddenly delicate in your hands.  _Stop, don’t—_ you don’t want that for yourself. You can’t have it nor handle it.  _Felix_ can take that kind of wild ecstasy, knows how to process it. He  _recovers_. Wouldn’t still be shaking in an hour, trying to remember how his limbs work, after you’d fucked him.  _Felix_ has a better grip on his body. It doesn’t slide free of his mind when noise and feeling and breathing and sensation are too much. For Felix, nothing is too much. Nothing is enough.

It takes you four attempts to say his name. “Felix—”

A breathless snarl. At first all it does is encourage him. He takes you so deep in his throat that he chokes on you.

 _“Felix—!_ ”

He stops. Looks up at you with you still in his mouth. A quiet, slippery place at the back of your mind thinks it’s delectable; that upward stare. His long-lashed bright brown eyes. He looks beautiful as he pulls away, as parting pressure causes your breath to hitch and your chest to stutter. He watches you splinter with an almost scientific curiosity, endeavoring to make sense of  _this_ , your latest nonsense. It is nonsense: You can't make your mouth form proper words. It took all you had for just his name. So you force him to translate silence while you pant.

But Felix knows you well. He leans over you, patient, planting a hand on the mattress by your hip. He studies you from that angle, takes in your pathetic, erratic breathing and your face half-lost to the pillows, half-smothered by your hair. It’s sticking to you, smelling too salty for shower-dampness to account for. It matches the sheen on the rest of you. A sweat slickness that makes you look as though you’ve been oiled. Felix notices it, too, biting at his lip and his piercing before bending to lick a line from below your navel to your neck, slowly enough to make you squirm, before making you suck the salt from his lips. He has to arch over you at a sideways angle to reach the kiss, and plants it off-center, closer to the corner of your mouth. A kiss to mirror the placement of his piercing.

You close your eyes, and he curls his fingers.

You jolt. He groans.

“God  _damn it,_ Locs.”

He twists and flexes his hand, and you shove your heels as far into the mattress as you can before they slip. One of them does. Your hand breaks free of his forearm and knots in the sheets instead; exactly as his always does when you’re above him and his face is flushed and his words have turned to whining streams of empty curses. Constant noises. He never shuts up, even with you deep enough to split him. And you,  _you_ are twisting exactly that same way. The way he does when he’s enjoying it.

You wonder if  _enjoy_ is the right word for the strange mix of agony and wanting churning in your stomach—and burning deeper than that.  _Enjoy_ , to you, implies something habitual. Something you would seek for yourself with regularity. And what you are feeling, as much as you  _like_ it—or as much as your body does, your mind  is all static and stifled screaming, pleading—is an overwhelming urge to bolt before it becomes too much.

It already is.

For both of you.

Felix looks ready to faint again. You can tell, bleary-eyed though you are, though you are looking at him sideways, that he’s pale under the flush painting his cheeks. That he’s sweating more than you are. That he looks less than lucid, the movements of his body at once languid and jagged. Intoxicated. You try to say his name and all that is escapes is noise.

Felix groans, mutters something in a rush. “I can’t take it—” and something else that trails off, lost to his labored breathing. His fingers disappear from your body too quickly, with remembered gentleness at the last second as you shudder. He has the lubricant in his hand again when you recover. You catch the shine of the tube out of the corner of your eyes. Know that his hands are moving outside your field of view. You close your eyes. Breathe in the pillowcase. Felix bends down to kiss you.

“Look at me,” he breathes, a hissing sort of whisper. He pinches your jaw between his thumb and index finger to twist your face up to his. To bring your lips up to his. To the nip of his teeth, bruising-hard, and the slide of his tongue. Direct and forceful, exploring almost to your throat. He traces your teeth. Your pallet. Samples the dull copper place where a  _wrong_ taste still marks where you bit the inside of your cheek on the mission four days ago. He wraps his hand around your throat.

Felix chokes you all the time. It’s a game to him, to see how far he can push your body. How much harder he can get you to fuck him when oxygen deprivation alters the intensity of the feeling. That he does it now tells you very little.  And what it does suggest, you overlook.

He leans into his kiss and into his hand until you have to break free of his mouth, overcome by the instinct to gasp. You resist it longer than usual. The gesture brings his body up to yours. You can feet him, warm and hard, bumping between your legs. Your vision swims and goes blank again. The movement of his other hand along your side, and then away, his forearm knocking against you as he adjusts himself, are things you feel without seeing. That you understand without seeing.

“Breathe,” he orders, though his hand is crushing your windpipe. You try to: gasp and suck and waver as he pushes harder—you can feel the flush in your face, the pressure in your eyes—

And he’s against you. While you struggle, your hands rising—a reflex—to pull at his wrist, the slick tip of him presses into the path his fingers paved.

You shoot upright, but all that moves is your torso, arched off of your pillows and the mattress, your neck still pinned beneath his hand. You can’t see his expression. Can’t, for a moment, feel your body or make out the words he’s saying as your brain rolls around in your head full of suffocated cotton. Vertigo drops you back to limpness. And when you do feel again, pain is all there is. An exploding pressure in your head. Bright lights behind your blind eyes. Your lungs screaming. And the rest of you—

You feel like you’re tearing. Like he’s pressurized your body, pushing a feeling of fullness into you that your existing organs can’t accommodate. Pressure,  _pressure_ and stretch and a hazy, incoherent curiosity that wonders if your pelvis is also breaking. He slides into you gently, slowly, as he lets you breathe again.

When his hand departs your throat, no doubt having left the shadows of his fingers, all you can do for too many seconds together is cough. It rattles your chest and shakes you. A full body cough. Felix  _whimpers._ Releases some airless, helpless whine as you shudder  _around him_. His steady entering into you hitches as he shudders.

Whether your lungs hurt more, or he does, you can’t be sure; though the pain of him subsides faster to a dull ache, a feeling like you might burst tangled together with something else, waiting and eager, that you didn’t give your body permission for. That you didn’t ask it to want. But breathing helps, regardless. As much as anything is going to.

You still can’t see.

Whether your brain or the implants in your damaged eyes have gone offline you don’t know. You don’t care. You can’t think clearly enough to care. All you are is feeling. Pressure, pain, something throbbing and heavy that—together with everything else—makes you want to scream.

But you can’t.

You won’t—

You can’t.

What little of you is still capable of some semblance of words—more like word-shaped urges—is telling you no. Don’t. Bad. Control. Soldier, soldier, soldier. Don’t fall apart on the battlefield. Not for the noise, not for the gore. Don’t fall apart on the battlefield.

You clamp your hand across your mouth.

Felix presses in, as deep as he can reach, breathing like it’s a relief with his hands sliding up under your thighs to lift your legs to where he wants them. To the angle he needs. He pulls away by some negligible measurement before pushing back again. At that angle. Towards the place his fingers found. Your head comes up, and slams back down hard enough to leave an ache in the back of your neck and a tingling in your spine that moves all the way into the fingers of your right hand. He does it again, slow and minimal, and your entire torso stutters and strains. In the dark of your blindness the sound of your breathing—fast and inexcusably erratic through your nose—sounds like the roar of gunfire. Felix swears, and sets a slightly faster pace. A steady one.

_Wait—_

You haven’t prayed in half a decade but you think that one of the silenced words trapped on this tip of your tongue feels like  _God._

He’s repeating in and out of you with a constant searing slide and you want badly not to whine not to whimper not to make the sounds he always does that you know you can’t pull off, that you can’t release and still walk away from unshaken and whole. Your eyes are watering. Your hand is salty, the taste of it overwhelming your open, gasping mouth. You feel like you’re coming apart.

Felix’s thumbs are pressing slow, massaging circles into the backs of your legs to try and hold your seams together, and he's telling you relax, relax, but you don't know the meaning of the words.

 

| | |

 

With you still blinded, Felix gives you time to calibrate before he turns vicious. Before his teeth seek out your neck and he has to release one of your legs to brace himself while his other hand digs bruises of his fingerprints into your thigh. He retracts, and shoves in again, hard and unyielding and rapid, and what it does to you is a kind of whiplash of your entire body, a snapping and relaxing of your spine as your jaw splits open and the cry you’ve tried so  _hard_ to contain escapes you. Makes it past your hand.

He hits you where he means to.

It’s different, in some ways worse and others better, than when he’d explored you with his hand. The  _fullness_ you feel is aching, but the pressure he puts on you, the jab and slide of the tip of him is broader, slicker than his fingertips. Widens the epicenter of the impact, and the waves that roll out with it.

You have never  _felt so much._

The pleasure—and it is pleasure— _rolls_ through you. Swells and subsides to the rhythm he sets and then some, like rings in water, colliding and expanding as they wrack your body. Every. Single. Inch of it. You feel Felix in your stomach. Against your spine. You feel him ricocheting off of your nerve endings, all the way into your curled toes and the fingers searching for any part of him to hold on to. He rocks back and offers you a hand, and you clutch it as you collide with him, as he punches through you. You hear two of his knuckles pop. Feel the joints shift between your fingers. And you yelp.

You yelp and you want to scream for him to stop, so that you can’t do it again. But you can’t—how could you, when he’s everywhere? When he is you? When you’re giving him your  _self_? But you don’t want to. To cry out and writhe. You hate the way you’re lifting and dropping your head, the repetitive,  patterned motion as you fight yourself to understand where he ends, where you begin, where your body is and where your mind is and if they’re still connected. You don’t think that they are,  _because_  you can’t ask him. You can’t ask him to wait. And you can’t make the hand that’s clinging to his rise up and smack him in the chest, make the foot raised near his shoulder dig into it and kick him away although you don’t, you never wanted, though he’s  _tearing you apart—_

Everything you are, and everything you built. There’s nothing left of it but surrender.

And you were supposed to be a soldier.

The hand clamped across your lips again is not enough. You think in shapeless, wordless instinct, more more, more,  _more—_

You bite into the heel of your hand so hard your mind blanks. Goes quiet and white, empty of everything except for that tide, those waves, that rolling ecstatic feeling of being overwhelmed and the sound of Felix’s uneven breathing. You think that somewhere in the distance where your brain can still reach your body that you feel the pillowcase against your cheek again, too.

You wish for a moment that you could see him. Though sight on top of everything might break what’s left of your processing entirely.

You picture Felix in your mind as he must be, and maybe you do see. Maybe your eyes do come back online. Maybe it’s all inside your head, or maybe you just can’t touch what the rest of your body is processing. Either way, you think he’s beautiful. He looks exquisite, rising and falling and rocking between the steel beams of your thighs, all flexing muscle with the tendons standing out on his neck like a sideways ladder your teeth yearn to climb. His comparatively pale skin is a highlight next to the brownness of yours. The look on his face is a portrait of bitten-lip ecstasy, his piercing snagged behind his teeth. You love the black shadow of his slick, straight hair sticking in messy, arbitrary patterns across his forehead.

He is a masterpiece, and you are aware of nothing but that and the fact that he is  _fucking_ you, faster and harder by the second as you squirm and implode and arch and come altogether undone with his hand in yours, with some horrific, repetitive, pathetic noise sliding out of your mouth around the hand you’ve caught in your teeth. You are aware that you can’t stop. That your body no longer belongs to you, but to Felix, and that he is pushing it pushing it pushing it until your eyes are more than watering and your cheeks are wet with more than sweat and you have your knees pulled almost to your chest as you hunch together and he’s still  _there_ inside you pushing—

You are nothing, you are nothing, you are no one and Felix is there instead and you are exploding, the unending shockwaves ripping your insides into some new order, some new pattern that Felix’s groaning says he likes. That the fire in his eyes, so hot on all your rawness, says he feeds on. You are, you are—you are on the verge of  _weeping_ and you never want him to stop (though the only words your brain still knows how to say are  _please, please stop—_ ) and you have no dignity left, no composure, you are  _ruined_ you are  _dirty_ and somehow, though you know how rare a thing it is to happen exactly this way, he makes you  _come_. Come undone, pale and liquid and limp and useless, biting into your hand hard enough to make it bleed, and shuddering so that Felix  _moans_  and punches into you harder, harder, faster; until he all but screams.

 _ _ _

 

Felix falls away from you, weak and groaning. You have to let go of his hand.

It hurts as your feet drop back to the mattress. As you flex your legs shut. He studies you in panting silence you can’t see. Your eyes are closed, now, on top of everything, and if they are working, you don’t know. How they could be, when you don’t even know how to breathe, is a mystery anyway.

You feel his weight leave the bed. You seek something, anything, to place your body in space in his absence. Clutch your hand between your teeth, seek the pillows with your cheek.

But he returns to you in a moment. You didn’t hear the water run, but you can feel the warm-wet-soft of a towel scraping over your body, and you do hear the wet smack of it against the bathroom floor as he uses it on himself, and tosses it aside again. You feel his weight splaying across the bed, then gathering together beside you. For once, he is quiet.

Watching you.

Watching the wreck you’ve become, and can’t unmake.

You want to push him away.

Your mouth-free hand even goes so far as twitching, but all he does is catch it. Folds it without menace in his fingers. His grip is sensitive to the damage you’ve done to it while clinging to him. He holds you gingerly, and guides it up to the heat of his breathing slowly enough that even your sloppy, static mind can interpret what he’s doing.

Felix kisses your knuckles. Barely. A hot brush of lip and metal one, two, three, four times before planting his mouth a little more firmly across the back of your hand. He releases the pressure for a moment to speak before reapplying it.

“You,” his voice is weak, airy, tripping past his still uncertain breathing, “are actually amazing, you know that?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Felix waits for a response, and hums into the back of your hand when he doesn’t get one. His other hand comes up and pinches at your jaw, pulls the hand you’re biting free. He leans across you to kiss the place you’ve been bruising before laying it across your chest.

You want more than anything to put it back.

You grind your teeth instead.

Felix settles down beside you again. He rests his check against the hand he’s still holding. And waits. Waits for you to function. To become a person again.

But you don’t feel human like this.

You no longer feel like anything.

Splayed across his bed, quaking legged and ruined, you feel like nothing.

But you try to make the world real. One motion at a time. The first is to turn your head. Your neck is cramped and aching and you can’t begin to acknowledge your eyes, but you turn them, nevertheless, toward the ceiling. The second motion is your breathing. Horrid, unhealthy and unhelpful almost hiccupping breaths: you count them out instead. The third thing is seeing.

You turn your hand around in Felix’s. Turn your head towards him though all your eyes can see is black to hone in on where he is, and peel your palms apart. Rest the back of your hand across his check. Then your fingers all across his face. You run them over him, press at his nooks and crannies and smooth curves and sharp angles, feeling for his expression. Tracing parted lips and half lidded eyes, you follow the outline of lashes and lids and epicanthic folds until you think you can picture the look in them. He’s  _enthralled_  by you.

Your hand stiffens, immobile against his cheek. He turns his mouth into the heel of it before nestling the shape of his face in your palm, his fingers interlacing once more with yours. His cheek flexes. You can feel his one sided smile.

“Not bad, right?”

Not at all. Your body is still screaming for him, ignorant of the hollowness in your heart and the icicle forming in your mind.  Not bad, not  _bad_ not—

What answer can you give?

You feel him shift away from your hand, still holding it, as he bends to kiss the tender skin of your wrist.

“Told you I wouldn’t hurt you.” Of course he hadn’t.

He would never.

 

| | |

 

You push him away, a hand to his shoulder, and, scoffing, he rolls over. Four breaths later, you flip to face him.

Felix laughs without opening his mouth, purring like a cat. He reaches back behind him and seeks your arm, closes his hand around your forearm and drags it around his waist. You close in around him, fitting the bend in your knees and the curl of your spine to his, line up your mouth with the crown of his head— with the saltwater smell of sweat and the vaguely chemical, lingering cologne fragrance of his shampoo beneath your nose. His back is warm against your chest.

When he twists his neck an hour later, searching for your mouth—

When his hand on yours turns guiding, a steady, dragging downward—

Later, when next he reaches for you, you lock your arm around his waist and throw him underneath you, pin him under hands and knees and lips and teeth that he  _loves_. Though you are sore and so much movement hurts, you are still rough with him when you pull him to you, you are impatient when you breach him, and you are relieved when he cries out in unprepared pleasure; in unexpected pain.

Afterwards, later, when he reaches for you, you fuck him facedown into the mattress until he whines and moans and bites into the bedspread, and you don’t give him the chance to ask you for anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> ONE, UH, RATHER LONGER THING—
> 
> First off, thanks for indulging me here and reading this. It’s quite literally the only reason I could stand to post this fic.
> 
> You see, THIS is not what I write. This is not what I do. I've never written anything like it before, and if my muse is good, I will never write anything like it again. That being the case, I can barely stomach that I’ve done it at all, and so must explain WHY I did it if I’m ever going to sleep well again. So, while what you as the reader take away from it is your business, I just want to state it for the record what this thing means to me as the author.
> 
> First off, I can tell you that this DID start as a dub-con smut fic when I first sat down to write it, but, as you can see, it has since become something else entirely. That being the case, I now want to make it as clear as possible that this is no longer supposed to be a story about sex at all: It is a story that happens to heavily INVOLVE sex because the original prompt/concept I wrote it off of had been pretty much PWP, and it maintained that format as it grew.
> 
> But let me emphasize the important part of that again:
> 
> THIS IS NOT A STORY ABOUT SEX. Or, by that logic, even a story ABOUT rape.
> 
> THIS is a story about a canonically abusive relationship as represented by a physical act of repeating and escalating violation between intimate partners.
> 
> This is a story about the way Felix makes Locus do what he wants and behave how he wants by masking it as something that would be good for him, and which Felix might even (probably does) genuinely believe WILL benefit him. Or at the very least, not hurt him. But it’s also a story about how Felix doesn’t just know how to get Locus to do something—he also knows when and how to act to keep Locus from getting in the way of what FELIX wants . . . and to keep him under Felix’s control. It is is an ugly, nasty, brutal physical metaphor for the kind of nuanced, calculated-yet-complex type of abuse we see in canon. (It is also incidentally, an encounter I feel could very plausibly have taken place, lolix and canon being what they are, but that's beside the point.)
> 
> So why the (probably-problematic, oh God, I am actually so sorry) rape metaphor, then?
> 
> Well, for one thing, it came out that way because of that original prompt I mentioned. 
> 
> It’s also because I can’t write a one shot about psychological abuse, and what having someone else weasel their way into your mind is like, and how a victim will avoid that truth and downplay it and try to tough out and overcome it over and over again until they’re forced to see it for what it is. (Either because of an outside influence, or because they physically and psychologically CANNOT take it anymore.) Not unless you like small novels in one-shot form. (Though that IS what the multi-chapter “In the Aftermath of Freedom” is about.)
> 
> But here's the thing: I CAN write a one shot about a physical encounter; and since the intimacy and necessity of communication involved in both sex and in letting someone into your headspace can actually be more or less equivalent, it ended up making a surprisingly good microcosm for what I guess I was trying to say all along.
> 
> And that’s really, (to get to the point) why I’m posting it. The kind of abuse canon demonstrated isn’t easy to show—it’s subtle, and building it for an audience takes time. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t important to have that as a narrative. Especially when that narrative is about overcoming it. (Hint: speaking from a pretty personal place here? It’s really, really important.) And because it’s important, both in general and to me, personally, I want to explore it in all of my fic. And--underneath the horrible, PWP 10k-of-rape surface of this thing (OhGodIt’s SoAwful)--that is in fact what I ended up getting to do here. And THAT is why I slugged through writing it even after I realized what it was starting to be about, and that’s why it gets to exist out on the internet where God and everyone can see it.
> 
> . . . Yeah. 
> 
> (Ok. I'm done now. Thanks so much for reading.)


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